By Renee Hills, a personal musing in response to the first weeks of war in Ukraine.
There are no bombs falling
On the green trees
Standing tall around my house.
But in sleep, distant rumbles of thunder
Or my husband’s soft snores.
Jerk me awake, heart pulsing,
Frantic images and sounds,
Exploding buildings, sirens screaming,
Humans huddled in basements,
Or defending isolated villages
Wondering how to eek
Rice and flour for another week.
A baby’s muffled cry freezes in the air
Fear, terror, a stifled shriek
Stuck in the base of my throat
Rages at a force that aims
To kill, destroy and maim.
I limit news exposure.
Take calming breaths.
Drink peaceful tea.
My mind ignores all that.
Instead plays ancestral memories
Distant thunder of artillery,
Lightning flashes of gunfire.
In the hills south of Faedis
Soldiers gassed the air,
Invaded Nonna’s house.
Ate the winter preserves,
Cow, pig and hens.
Made fire with the furniture.
1917. Starving, freezing.
She turned 14.
War is madness
Created by damaged men.
Grief, pain and loss
Absorbed by women
Who lived on like Nonna,
Smiling, loving children
And grandchildren,
Trauma hidden in our blood.
There are no bombs falling
On the green trees
Standing tall around my house.
Repeat
There are no bombs falling
On the green trees
Standing tall around my house.
